


Noe Bedre/ Something Better

by aclockworkapple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: And Draco, F/M, HP: EWE, I mean, M/M, Mystery, Other, an actual mess, harry kinda hates everything?, hermione and ron aren't very good friends, hes a mess, hes struggling with the aftermath of the war, holy shit, slytherin squad, some deaths?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 07:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10212863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aclockworkapple/pseuds/aclockworkapple
Summary: All characters belong to JK Rowling, all that jazz. Enjoy my version of the events!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to JK Rowling, all that jazz. Enjoy my version of the events!

_ Prologue _

 

The air is thick with pain and guilt and torment. A heavy, putrid smell of betrayal. He is choking, clutching at his throat as he sinks to his knees.

He screams and a hand clasps over his mouth. His chest explodes, and he is sobbing and shouting, his body shrunk as if he wants to fit inside a small small pocket of nothingness.

Someone grasps his shoulders and turns him around and when, through tear filled eyes, he realises who it is, his hands clench around their neck.

"You fucking bastard. You fucking fucking  _ bastard _ ."

He's shaking now, barely breathing through his anger. "It should've been me. Do you hear me? It's all your fault. You should've helped him. You should've helped  _ him _ ."

Here his voice breaks and his face goes rigid. And then there's a blinding white, a fading comforting voice and Draco is falling back

back

back.

 

 


	2. Chapter 1

##  1: July 2nd, two months after the war

 

Blinding white.

He forces a deep breath, interrupting the coughs that had been racking his fragile frame. Empty eyes flick upwards, staring at their reflection in the unforgiving mirror. No matter where he looks, all he sees is the fulminating white. His hands shake as he adjusts his fucking white collar, runs a hand through his fucking almost bleach white hair and only stop trembling once three fucking white pills find themselves in his left hand.

He swallows them dry in his fucking white mouth, barely able to stop himself from choking and pushing them back up.

For a moment he loses his balance, stumbling dizzily because the pills have done nothing to help and the repulsively pure white is brighter than ever before.

Head spinning, Draco Malfoy makes his way to the door of his apartment. He grimaces as he takes notice of just how fucking white his walls are, and just how everything glows but him. Everyone glows on the ‘side of the Light’ – everyone but him.

His left forearm burns with rage.

He has barely made his way out of the house when two sharp hands dig into his sides, and Merlin, he thinks, the fucking limitations of house arrest.

The guards glare at him and before long he feels the familiar pull of side-along apparition.

Upon landing, he stumbles and is dragged not at all carefully towards the Ministry of Magic. With all the respect he would’ve usually received gone, he has to endure each muttered insult as he passes witches and wizards. Clearly, Harry fucking Potter saving him from a lifetime of Azkaban is not getting him into good graces anytime soon.

With a start, he notices the white robes that the guards are dressed in, and a hysterical laugh escapes him. Of course they would be wearing white robes, all pure and perfect and sickeningly heroic as if they had done no wrong. He seethes as he is hauled, like a piece of luggage, into the lift.

_ White. Black. White. Black. _

_ Good. Bad. _

_ Innocent. _

_ Guilty. _

As much as he detests his father, Lucius fucking Malfoy, for sticking with the wrong side, for his useless fucking Slytherin self-preservation, he cannot help but hope for a slightly relaxed sentence. He is still his father, still the man who cared for him in his own twisted way, and though he may not currently like him, he does love him.

When the guards restraining him push Draco into his seat, one of them leans in to leave some choice words in his ears, and the other spits to show exactly how much the name Malfoy means to him.

“Death Eater scum,” is as much as Draco hears before tuning out, instead choosing to take in his surroundings.

The room is larger than his own had been, and he grits his teeth when he realises that it's due to the abnormally large crowd of spectators. There to jeer, laugh and crow about the elder Malfoy being sent where he deserves.

The Judge casts a searching glance around the room and then Draco's head is flashing with moments; barely breathing, watching fearfully as a judge played God with his future, the sound of his name ground out like dirt on the witness' lips. Then comes the  _ greengreengreen _ of his eyes, like the forbidden forest but brighter, oh god  _ so  _ much brighter, and the breathtaking black of his hair. Then the fire appears, licking its way along everyone he's ever loved and so, so close to burning him, leaving him to fall to ash.

In a way that looks almost rehearsed, had anyone been observing him, his hand makes its way into his pocket, unnoticeably crushing another pill. The hand meanders its way to his mouth, and he doesn't even think twice about swallowing.

The sound of a gavel striking a sound block echoes around the hall, and his eyes flick back to the judge who is calling out the name of the accused.

"Lucius Malfoy has been charged with the following crimes,"

Draco clenches his hand into a fist, earlier thoughts of relaxed sentences completely vanished from his mind. This was the man who gave him no choice but to succumb to a psychopath. This was the man who held him under the Imperius when he didn't follow the rules, when he tried to think for himself. This is the man he has tried so hard not to become, only to fail when he realises he has only repeated his father's past mistakes.

At this point, Draco rises from his seat, and with as much dignity as he can muster, makes his way out of the room.

He cannot bear to see that face, with its brutal blue eyes or sadistic smile.

***

The bathroom, oh joy of joys, had the blank decor that Draco had expected. He spun around, trying to lose himself in the absence of colour while at the same time feverishly crushing pills in his right hand.  The tap was running and he was delirious,  _ high, an unaffected part of his mind suggested _ , but,  at this point, he didn't give a damn about his health.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard footsteps, or maybe it was just his heartbeat, obnoxiously loud.

Yet when he glanced towards the mirror, and really why on earth were there mirrors, it wasn't a  _ girls _ toilet, he saw the vibrant green he had become so familiar with.

He swivelled around, laughing bitterly, before crying out, accusingly, "You!"

The bastard raised an eyebrow and took a step forward.

"Me?"

His tone seemed to suggest amusement. Draco hated being mocked.

He launched himself at the boy, willingly forgetting every time his sorry arse had been saved by Harry fucking Potter.

The other just stared at him, coolly. He held out a hand, and Draco was almost tempted to point out the parallels of their situation- years ago, a young, snobby blonde, thinking he owned the world, telling the Golden boy to accept his  _ friendship _ .

Impatiently, Potter eyed him. He glanced down at Malfoy's pockets and - how the fuck had this oblivious idiot noticed - beckoned knowingly.

Draco made no move to give them up. They were his lifeline, and he could not stop himself from compulsively forcing down the pills every spare second.

"I've saved you twice. I've no intention of doing so again."

Draco sneers, and lifts his shirt just enough to see the red scars left behind after he'd been "saved".

"Yes." he spoke apathetically, "I certainly owe you for the time you thought it perfectly alright to cut into me, slash after slash after slash."

Potter looked visibly sickened by the thought of causing anyone harm, no matter what side of the War they had been.

"I," he cast his eyes downwards, "Apologise."

"No need, I'll carry the reminders forever." Draco replied scathingly, before shoving past the fucking Boy Who Lived.

 


	3. Chapter 2

 

##  _ 2: July 3rd, the next day _

The morning news is on the kitchen table when Harry wanders in, eyes red from lack of sleep.  
  
Bright headlines scream out from the page, "Sentenced to the Kiss: controversial or what Malfoy finally deserves?" and there's a further note that the article takes up two double spreads on pages 1 to 4.  
  
His stomach swells up with nausea as he sees those ice cold eyes stare vacantly out of the mugshots (delightfully, they have been chosen to accompany the article) and then his eyes burn with anger as he rips up the newspaper, word by word falling like snowflakes around him.  
  
He's just so so tired; tired of being on everyone's mind when he just wants to be unnoticed, tired of being gazed at every time he goes out.  
  
As usual Kreacher has prepared food for him, and as usual, he takes the plate and coaxes the meal into the bin.  
  
Harry is exhausted, but sleep won't help and neither will eating. Every night he is plagued by cruel laughs, and fires burning and bright, bright colours before everything halts and he's at Kings Cross station and this time he's taking Dumbledore's hand and walking away, out of this mess and out of the world.  
  
It's usually at that point that he wakes up, heart pumping erratically and hands shaking.  
  
He hasn't told anyone about the dreams, not since Ginny left, not since Ron and Hermione moved out from Grimmauld Place and into their new apartment. Not since the rest of the Weasleys retreated into their Burrow, distraught with the loss of Fred.  
  
He remembers clearly the day Ginny stormed out, hair ablaze, eyes raw, the whisper of wildness on her lips. He remembers her loud voice proclaiming that she can't be caged and she can't be controlled. He also remembers her pinky finger curling around his, "We'll stay friends Harry, I promise. I just need to go. Explore the world. Explore the people. Explore what could be."  
  
And he gets it, really, he does. How her way of dealing with grief is to take the chances Fred never did - to go out and speed through life on her own rollercoaster, all by herself. He just wishes it wasn't so sudden. He just wishes he hadn't been left by himself.  
  
Since the preparations for a new era began, Harry has mostly stayed at home. It's his first time truly alone in a house, but he doesn't take advantage of it - in fact, he often feels like he's under house arrest, like it’s him who's gone through a trial.   
  
His days have started to blend together, and he sticks to living in the haze that is receiving Owls, and throwing the contents of every invitation they carry, be it exclusive interview, party, or trial, straight into the fireplace.  
  
The fireplace. Merlin, he couldn't even walk around half the house when he first moved in for fear of falling through Sirius’ footsteps. He so _so_ wishes he had picked up the mirror in time, but then again there is so much he wishes for that it's no wonder that none of it comes true.  
  
Harry’s also started reading in between his nightmares, and though it's nothing like the voracious thirst of Hermione (he still feels a pang when he says her name- how long has it been since they talked?) it still gives him something to focus on. Something better.   
  
Today, after his lonesome non-breakfast, he makes his way to the bathroom, and stands for what feels like hours staring at his eyes in the mirror beyond the basin. They're haunted- the ghosts of what could've been and how it could've ended differently.  
  
Then he's back on the floor, heart pounding, arms flailing side to side. Harry whimpers, and can feel himself being dragged along the great white of King’s Cross station - away from the war, away from Voldemort.  
  
He lies, immobilised, like he's been the victim of the _petrificus totalus_ , and he breathes heavily. In and out. In and out.  
  
Just as he feels he's about to vanish into the floorboards, as if his body had never lain there, he is alerted of an intruder.  
  
The wards have broken. He can't help hoping it's Hermione or Ron, come to shake him out of his stupor, clasping his hand and teaching him to breathe again.   
  
Or even Ginny, back from adventure and ready to settle down with him- though he knows this thinking is far-fetched, it's unclear whether they'll ever end up in a relationship again, and he's not even sure he ever loved her.   
  
He jumps, albeit sluggishly, into a cautious pose- wand out, fighting stance. It's the most productive he's felt in days, so whoever it is, be it, Death Eater or fellow friend, he has to at least give them some credit for inspiring movement from him.  
  
Upon slowly unlocking the wards he's greeted by platinum hair and a smell of slightly off pumpkins rushing at him at speeds of light. He's embraced so closely, wrapped in her pale yet strong arms.   
  
He breathes - _Luna._  
  
She holds him so tightly he feels like his soul can never tumble out from his body, and she feels like home - safe, comforting.  
  
He wants to speak, to thank her, but all that comes out of his mouth is a croak and then Harry feels like he's choking again.  
  
Luna releases him and then he follows her gaze around the room. Her eyes are so bright, so lively, that he thinks he might sob if he could.  
  
Her eyes land on the mould that's been growing in a neglected corner, and she glances back at him.  
  
Luna nods knowingly, "Gingly roots," and he smiles, lopsidedly, because the one person who everyone thought was crazy, is the only one not having shed her previous shell of a being.  
  
She's still herself- her three dimensional, utterly complex, completely insane and ridiculous self.   
  
Suddenly, "Loony" Lovegood is more normal than them all.  
  
"Harry." She speaks quietly, directly to him for the first time.  
  
Then she grabs his wrist and despite his trying to wrench her off when he realises what she's doing but before Harry knows it they're spinning around and around and around.  
  
They land in an abandoned alleyway and Harry coughs and claws at his throat.  
  
"I can't," he whispers, pleadingly, "Take me back Luna."  
  
Her jaw hardens, childish humour gone in a second. He supposes that he's wrong - that the war has had some affect on her youthfulness and wonder, but the thought flies away before he can take any more time to analyse it.  
  
She is firm with him, and he knows it's what he needs so he follows her, unwillingly.  
  
At the end of the deserted road there's a dingy cafe, which he is forcefully lead into.    
  
He is awakened by how different the inside is; full of people laughing and talking and shouting, the music floating jubilant yellow across the room.   
  
The two of them walk across the cafe and slide into a navy blue booth. Harry admires the tops of seats, strung in fairy lights, before turning back to Luna.  
  
He speaks softly, his questions bubbling up, but Luna only answers the one she deems relevant.  
  
"What is this place?" He's asked.  
  
Her mouth moves, forming the words "It's small, paparazzi-free, and it's owned by my great uncle's best friend," but all that Harry can hear on her lips is "You could be this alive, you could be this alive, you could be this alive."  
  
He replies with a polite smile, speaking about how nice it is that she took him here but she can see what he's really saying which is "I wish, I wish, I wish."  
  
Tea appears from nowhere and Harry leans back in his seat, relaxing his tense shoulders and wincing at the pain of it.   
  
He breathes with Luna this time, in and out, side by side, alive alive alive.  
  
The afternoon wears thin, and their eyes talk long into the evening; about forbidden divisions between the selves of before and after, the reversed discrimination facing the prisoners of war, and how fucking fucking tired they are of being forced into adulthood without experiencing innocence.   
  
To anyone else walking by, their conversations sound like they consist of awkward small talk, but Harry knows Luna understands him in her own magical way.  



	4. 4

**July 10th, a week later,**

  
Draco watches the stars in the evenings. They glow in the dark, beacons to guide the path to another existence. He desperately wishes he could take that path.

If he tries hard enough he can picture all of his family, up there with their constellations, but with everything that's happened, he supposes it will be a bad idea. Perhaps he will see Mother, who must be lonely - all by herself in the Manor with nothing but memories, but not now, not soon. 

Sometimes, he cries. 

His father would be appalled, Draco knows, but then again, Lucius is far far away, and there's certainly no chance he'll be able to berate Draco for his weakness.

God knows Draco has enough problems without him already. 

  
He is sat on the roof, watching the sky, when Theo joins him.  
  
Theo's smile is sideways and he clasps Draco's fingers with his own.  
  
"You promised you'd come today."  
  
Draco nods, disappointed in himself; he had forgotten today was club night. He never kept track of the days anymore. Time blurred after the Battle. 

  
The wind whistles and they both shiver. 

"So," the unspoken sentence is left hanging in the air.

Draco's house arrest ended as soon as Lucius' trial was over. He guesses that the Ministry doesn't think he has anyone to escape with, what with his father being sentenced to death.

He cannot help feeling ashamed that he can think about his Father's death without particularly caring. 

  
Draco leans into Theo, into warm and comfort and home - or the closest he'll get to it now.

Home is his Slytherin dormitory. Home is the foggy mornings, and watching the lake freeze over, and the moonlight climbing in through the window.

  
Home is Pansy's irritating smirk when she knows what you're thinking, and Theo getting up at dawn to read or Blaise writing his dramatic letters of pining every few days to a new lover.

  
He does not hesitate when Theo checks he is alright with Apparating, just stares straight ahead, determined.

  
Pansy and Blaise are already there, both knocking down pint after pint. They all politely pretend that the alcohol is just for fun, and not a sign that they're struggling.

Thankfully, they do not crowd him when he comes over, but rather Pansy continues her opinions of the men who have propositioned her in the last hour, and Draco smiles a half smile,  finding it entertaining.

He does not tell her that he's missed her because he is not prone to outbursts of Hufflepuff confessions. Instead, he lets her speak.  
  
She is just halfway through her impression of the bald wizard, who she says resembled a duck, when Theo, who is back from the bar, loops his and Draco's hands together and asks Draco (though of course not outright, he's not a bloody Gryffindor) whether he'd like to dance.  
  
Draco has not taken any pills tonight, but the alcohol is a good enough replacement - enough to dull his panicked thoughts, to stop him from remembering, so he allows himself to be led to the dance floor.  
  
It's late now, so the songs are slow, and the crowd smaller than usual. Theo places his hand on Draco's hip and hums along to the music.  
  
"Doesn't it bother you?" Draco whispers to him, "That you're dancing with someone who should be locked up in a mental hospital."

  
His eyes widen in alarm at what he's just said, but Theo shrugs.

Draco tries to remember how many pints he's had, but it all seems like a haze now.

  
"We've all been through it. The war, I mean. Does it bother you that I spend half of my days locked inside my library, obsessing over glamours to hide everything about me that I'm ashamed of?"   
  
They gaze each other in the eyes and Draco says softly, "We'll be fine together."  
  
Theo kisses him gently, then moves away as if he knows he stepped over his boundaries.  
  
Draco stutters, his face crumpling, "Theo. I can't right now. We're not okay yet. We need to be okay before we can."  
  
Theo sighs, and nods.  
  
"I don't know if I can wait. I don't know how long it will take me to get better." he admits.  
  
"We'll wait for each other." Draco murmurs.  
  
"We'll wait."  
  
Draco walks back home alone that night. He thinks about how long he'll have to make Theo wait. When he's home, he tries his best to go past his boxes of pills.  
  
I can get better, he thinks.  
  
Then he doubles back, because he cannot help it and he cannot heal himself that quickly.  
  
The sky is white when he collapses into bed and glances towards the window.  
  
He cannot see the stars when the sky is white.  



End file.
